


thrill of the chase

by hayleyisbored



Series: a game that you play [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Banter, Flirting, Fluff, Humour, M/M, Post-Skyfall, Q Has a Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 15:15:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20311603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayleyisbored/pseuds/hayleyisbored
Summary: When M had called him into his office, Q had little expected to find Bond lounging in a chair already, arms folded across his chest and wearing his distinct pout. He'd expected to be handed an assignment even less.





	thrill of the chase

The sky is a smattering of grey clouds; a mess of charcoal fingerprints left scattered across snow white paper. London sits beneath a near constant cover of cloud but it's the hottest day on record so far, the sort of evening where Q would like nothing more than to fold himself into the crook of his settee in front of the whirring blades of his self-built fan, with only a good book and a tall, sweating glass of Pimm's to keep him company.

Instead, he finds himself dressing in front of his window, hoping to squeeze the last few drops of decent light out of the day because somehow you always look better in natural lighting than beneath the artificial rays of a bulb; he needs to feel at his best before he can even contemplate stepping out of the door in exactly thirty minutes. 

Bond used to treat punctuality like a pick and mix, collecting the things he enjoys in abundance and skipping over anything he considers less than satisfying: show up early and stay long at Q Branch for his latest equipment, turn up late to formal meetings with M, never show at all for the intended dressing down after chaotic but completed missions. With Q's watch strapped firmly to his wrist, he's begun to make a point of keeping impeccable time which could be thought of as a blessing _and_ a curse. 

Bond flashes the watch to anyone who might care to look or be able to stomach his incessant smugness, despite all of Q's warnings to keep his new gadget private. Q is loathe to be accused of playing favourites but it would be an even bigger nuisance to have to make all the other Double-Oh agents a watch for the sake of being fair, all because Bond has emphatically decided that he can forgo keeping information to himself just this once. It's one thing to shoot down the queries of his minions in Q Branch, quite another for all of MI6 to be gossiping about the Quartermaster and his soft spot for their top agent. 

Besides, he'd only ever intended the watch for 007. It _was_ an act of favouritism, after all.

Still, it's precisely thirty minutes for Q to prepare for Bond's arrival, which means precisely thirty minutes for him to stop the tide of nausea threatening to pull him under.

Q can't manage to successfully sort his tie out. He's become fixated on it, he's undone it at least five times by now and he knows that it's because instead of the jacket and trousers he's dug out from the back of his wardrobe, he feels like he's wearing a whole other person entirely. It leaves him distinctly uncomfortable and he has to resist against picking at his sleeves or pulling at his collar. The suit is inoffensive enough though, a simple black affair because it's bad enough to be dressing up, let alone straying from something tried and tested and _familiar_.

The dress shoes found buried beneath boxes of scrap metal and rusted springs are a size too small, the feeling in his toes dissipating fairly quickly, so he's made a firm compromise on the waistcoat and swapped it out for a grey knitted vest in a valiant effort to ground himself. He's also made a rather noble attempt to comb his hair but Q thinks that might be asking a little too much of his unruly mop. 

"What do you think, Athena? Too much?" Q says, addressing the dozing cat.

Athena, curled up in the middle of his bed like a breathing ginger cushion, mews in lacklustre support.

Q frowns at his reflection, feeling quite put out. "That's what I thought - although if you can't say something nice, you shouldn't say anything at all."

A firm, insistent knock on the door jolts Q out of his misery. He supposes he should be grateful that 007 is maintaining some degree of politeness instead of breaking into his home again. With one last look in the mirror, Q concedes that this is as good as it's going to get for him and hurries his way to the front door, worried that Bond's patience has a limited run and to push the fringes of that patience isn't in Q's best interests.

Q cracks open the door enough to peer out and spy the suppressed amusement on Bond's face.

"007."

"Good evening, Q. May I come in?"

"Since you're asking so nicely, I suppose you may."

Q pulls the door wide open, stepping aside to allow Bond admittance - and freezing when he gets a better look at the agent's attire. Q has certainly seen his fair share of Bond's extensive suit collection but that has almost always been what Bond considers the typical day-wear of a gentleman; superbly cut blazers and trousers in varying shades of grey, blue and black, crisp white shirts without a crease to be seen. Q has merely glimpsed the promise of finer suits through the lens of a security camera, safely ensconced at his station where the sight isn't quite so dazzling because there are usually more pressing things demanding Q's attention.

_How could anyone think they stand any chance, with Bond looking like _that_?_, Q ponders helplessly, eyes following the broad line of Bond's shoulders draped by the deep wine velvet tuxedo jacket. Only Bond can wear velvet _and_ a bow-tie, and not instantly recall images of bygone Christmas parties.

Bond breezes by, not totally unaware of Q's reaction but at least giving him time to compose himself. It certainly puts his own efforts to shame but then, this is the sort of thing that Bond is really, _really_ good at.

"Why, Q, I am surprised." he says, gesturing at Q's state of dress.

"I know," Q rediscovers his voice and quickly sets about grumbling over the forthcoming evening, tugging at his tie in agitation. Seeing Bond has only made him feel worse. "I _know_ so don't say a bloody word. I feel ridiculous in all this. Entirely unnecessary."

"Nonsense. You look very well." Bond says smoothly, reaching up to stay Q's twitching fingers. "And stop fidgeting, you're loosening the knot."

"I rather doubt I look like anything but tension stuffed into a tailored jacket. I haven't worn this suit since - " The last time Q had put his one and only suit on was for M's funeral. He quickly abandons the sentence but it leaves him on uneven footing, stumbling about in his too tight shoes for a less gloomy path. "You - you look - nice."

An understatement, he can see it from the smirk on Bond's face. Bond knows how he looks and it's never _nice_. In fact, Q reckons that nice is about the last word you can find on a list of descriptors for 007.

"That - wasn't what I - "

"It's fine, Q. I'll take nice - for now." Bond says, making it sound like a tease and a threat simultaneously. "Do you have your earpiece in?"

"I'm not a complete novice, 007, thank you very much." Q snaps, pressing a searching touch to his ear in spite of his assurances. "I still don't see why I should be involved at all."

"Field work will be good for you. You said it yourself: a trigger needs to be pulled occasionally."

_Field work_, Q thinks bitterly. When M had called him into his office, Q had little expected to find Bond lounging in a chair already, arms folded across his chest and wearing his distinct pout. He'd expected to be handed an assignment even less.

"Yes, well." Q sniffs, straightening his glasses. "At the time, I meant that in reference to you."

Bond bites down on a laugh, stepping closer to tug at and undo all of Q's hard work on the tie. Q lifts his chin, allows Bond's practised hands to weave it into something acceptable for the high standards of the location they're headed to. 

_Bond's hands._ Elegant in a whole other way of their own, Q could marvel over them for hours. Faintly scarred, slightly sun-freckled, every movement fuelled with purpose; always seeking a gun, a glass, a ledge to grip onto so he can haul himself up and away from the brink of death. Restrained in a way Q could only dream of because Q's hands are busy too but not like Bond's. Q's fingers fly frantically, desperately, over keyboards and gadgets, eager to move on and play catch up with his mind. Q knows how to appreciate a finely tuned machine and Bond's hands fit the bill.

Yes, Q could twist himself up into knots over those hands.

"You're coming - " Bond begins, close enough that his breath warms Q's cheeks. " - because this needs to be quick - " Q watches as he slowly draws the knot of the tie up to Q's throat. " - clean - " he reaches around, nails lightly scratching at Q's neck as he adjusts the collar on his shirt. " - and preferably unnoticed." Bond runs a hand down the length of the tie, smoothing it out. Q curses the erratic thumping of his heart. "I'm just the distraction."

"Consider me distracted." Q says in a moment of uncharacteristic daze. "So all you have to do is sit and look pretty?"

"You think I'm pretty?"

"James."

"My instructions are to charm the target and acquire her phone in the process. It may contain vital information we need on the whereabouts of her husband."

"I'm not sure how you're planning on persuading the target to hand her phone over to you."

"By any means necessary." Bond looks at Q with something close to pity. 

"Naturally." 

Bond consults his watch - Q's watch - and jerks his head in the direction of the door. "It's time. Moneypenny is waiting for you outside in the car." he says calmly, sweeping a shrewd gaze over Q's face. "Don't doubt yourself. M wouldn't have put you on this assignment if he thought you couldn't handle it and I wouldn't tolerate inexperienced rookies who are in over their heads hindering me." 

Q has the notion that this is Bond's way of giving a pep talk; he's always been in favour of cutting to the chase. Q supposes he should be quite touched at the gesture.

"It's not my capabilities that I'm concerned over. I - " Q hesitates, wondering whether to continue with his confession and provide the agent with something else to mercilessly tease him over. It's inconvenient for Q that Bond has always seen him as more than the collected voice whispering instructions into his ear over a line. "I'm rather not fond of being in public. Willingly wading into a dangerous scenario on top of that is enough to put one on edge."

"Q, if anyone so much as breathes in your direction - " Bond unbuttons his jacket, pushing it away to reveal his Walther nestled snugly against his side. It's certainly a stark contrast to the plush velvet. " - I'll take care of it."

"A heartwarming sentiment, Bond. However, I'm afraid that you can't pull your gun out in every unfortunate circumstance."

"Let's say I'll agree to disagree. It's a shame I can't offer you a lift but we must do our best to avoid suspicion."

"007, I wouldn't suffer your driving even if it were a choice between that and getting on the tube at rush hour." Q reaches into his trouser pocket, pulling out a pair of cufflinks he'd only finished that morning. "Before you go - "

Bond takes the offered cufflinks from Q, weighing them up in the palm of his hand. "New gadget?"

"Nothing exciting. I trust even you won't need the whole nine yards tonight. If the phone turns up nothing, drop a cufflink into her bag or pin it to her in some way. It's a bug but virtually undetectable as such."

"And you settled on turning it into an accessory?" Bond asks dubiously, nevertheless swapping out his old cufflinks for Q's and inspecting them at arm's length.

"If you think you can do better, I'm open to suggestions. You know my office hours."

"Your office hours are so unpredictable that I'd have more chance of running into you on the street but duly noted."

They stare at each other across Q's hallway, Bond looking deceptively domestic beside the umbrella stand and jumbled pile of abandoned shoes, a smile in his eyes. Golden ribbons of light break through the clouds and through the blinds of the window, falling in orange slats onto Bond's lined face. The space between them is thick with anticipation, heavy with some mutual warmth, and Q almost feels as if he should say something sincere.

"Well, ahem - good luck, Bond. Try to get me home in one piece." 

He's never been particularly successful at emotions. Still, _Good enough_, Q thinks. 

Bond appears to be working through stages of genuine disbelief, caught suspended in rare speechlessness. Q thinks he should congratulate himself on managing to shut Bond up, no matter how brief a time.

007 shakes his head, opening the front door for Q with an impatient wave of his hand. "I'll see you at the restaurant. Don't be late, I'd hate for you to miss out on the fun. I'll lock up for you." 

"Make sure you do. I'd be devastated if Athena made a daring escape."

"Athena?"

"My cat."

"Of course you named your cat after the goddess of wisdom and warfare." 

Bond says that in a delightful cocktail of exasperation and fondness, a tone reserved solely for the Quartermaster. No one else can quite get on Bond's nerves _and_ charm him so completely in the same sentence. It makes Q's mind go blank and then fill up with a thousand responses. It makes him want to hear Bond speak like that some more.

"Amongst many other excellent qualities."

Bond just shakes his head again, this time giving Q a nudge on his shoulder to get him tripping through the doorway. "Go on - out."

When Q steps from the cool interior of the building and into the late evening heat, it's hard not to spot Moneypenny. She's parked right outside the door, grinning wildly at him from behind aviator sunglasses in the driver's seat of a gleaming silver Bentley.

Q absorbs the shock and tuts, clambers into the back of the car with as much dignity as he can muster, which is very little as it turns out. "What happened to the standard issue vehicle?"

Moneypenny's smile grows wider, turns wicked. "Oh," she begins lightly, glancing around the interior of the car as if surprised to find herself there. "I...persuaded them to let me take something a little flashier out seeing as I'm acting chauffeur today."

"So you took it without permission," Q surmises succinctly. "Of everything in the garage, you went for the Mark VI? I understand that this relic has been in storage since the sixties. I'll say this for him; not even Bond would pick out such an antique and he's soft when it comes to nostalgia."

"There's something to be desired in Bond's taste of cars."

"I'd wager he would say the same of you."

"I don't see why Bond should have all the fun," she says with a shrug, craning her neck to pull out onto the road and immediately running into the London traffic. There's a short burst of indignant car horn beeps from behind them but Eve pays it no attention, merely tucks an escaped curl back into her ponytail. "He's driving an Aston Martin to the restaurant."

"Aston Martin?!" Q sits up, leaning between the seats to stare at the side of Moneypenny's face. "Tell me you aren't referring to _the_ Aston Martin? The Aston Martin I've been working on after he destroyed the last one I gave him? The one that hasn't been test driven yet? The one that was supposed to be kept secret to avoid this exact scenario?"

"The very same - are you okay, Q? You're looking green."

"I'm perfectly alright, Moneypenny." Q grits out between clenched teeth, slumping back against leather. He catches a sculpted brow arching sceptically at him in the mirror. "Thank you for asking." he tacks on, attempting to sound less like he's about to bolt from the car at the next red light.

Moneypenny changes the subject swiftly. "I admit that I was surprised to see your name in the brief for this mission. Field work isn't for everyone," she says tactfully, defying all physics and expertly manoeuvring around a standoff between a bus and a taxi. "I should know."

"M didn't give me much of a choice. He seems to think it imperative that I should be there to keep Bond from doing anything too rash."

They lapse into a comfortable silence as Moneypenny navigates her way efficiently towards the location. Q's always liked Eve, found her pleasant to talk with when the minions in Q Branch feel too distant emotionally and Bond distant in a more literal sense, off the grid and out of the country. Q can count the number of people he calls acquaintances on two hands, the ones he allows close on one but Moneypenny occupies a space somewhere between fingers. 

She was kind to him when he first started as Quartermaster, even when the rest of MI6 gave him a wide berth because he was the new guy - new _kid_, they'd guffawed - who looked barely old enough to get his driver's license, let alone be trusted to command Q Division. That had changed soon enough, of course, and Q never actively sought friendship if he could help it but he valued that consideration from Moneypenny all the same.

"It's not like you to readily commit to babysitting agents in person." Eve says from the front seat after some time. "Why Bond?"

"Apparently I'm the only one who can exercise a small degree of control over 007 while getting the job done." Q sighs heavily, brushing a stray hair from his forehead. "Someone tends to get hurt when Bond is out on a mission, I just hope that this time it won't be me."

Moneypenny pulls up alongside the kerb a short way away from the restaurant, ignoring the double yellow lines because who is going to tell the secretary to the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service that she's parked illegally? She twists in her seat, a knowing smile on her face and amusement ringing in her voice.

"I don't think it's possible for anybody to control 007."

"That's what I said to M, too." Q says grimly, giving himself a quick once-over before reaching for the handle. "How do I look?"

"As good as any Double-Oh and twice as dashing." Moneypenny tells him firmly, squeezing his knee in a gesture of comfort before shooing him from the vehicle. It all feels very much like he's being herded into the playground on his first day of school. Q is building up the nerve to make his way towards the glowing sign of the restaurant when Moneypenny rolls down the window, softly calling out to him. "Don't do anything I wouldn't!"

Q braces a hand on the roof of the car, bending to make eye contact with her, "Yes, I'll do my best to keep from killing Bond."

"I _nearly_ killed him, Q. Like I've told 007 many times before now, if I wanted him dead he would be in the ground already."

"I'll remember that if Bond ever gets insubordinate on missions."

Q can still hear Moneypenny cackling as she drives away, abandoning him to his miserable fate. 

"Let's get this over with, then." Q sighs, drawing himself up to full height.

He's greeted at the entrance by a doorman dressed to excess, a thin film of sweat shining on his brow from beneath the brim of his hat. Q exchanges a sympathetic glance with the man, who must be thinking along the same lines judging by the way he eyes Q's knitted vest. 

Q gets a brief impression of sparkling chandeliers and gilded walls, everything cream and gold, when he's accosted just inside the door by the maitre d'. It seems as if the place is outfitted by barricades of staff just to ensure all the right people are getting in. Person upon person upon person, Q truly does detest stepping out into public. He wonders briefly how Bond is getting on in his velvet jacket.

"Do you have a reservation, sir?"

"Yes, under the name of Quentin Fleming." Q says, internally shuddering at his pseudonym. He hadn't personally chosen it but he admires Bond's refusal to let the 'Q' slip. "I believe I have time for a drink first?"

Q hears someone coming onto the line in his earpiece, a quiet exhale that sounds like a person settling in for a potentially long night. The maitre d' starts talking just as Q Branch makes contact. 

"Very well, sir. Enjoy your - "

" - _Q, 007. This is Jessica on standby, waiting to receive you_."

"Thank you, that's splendid." Q says to them both, moving along so that the maitre d' can receive the next customer. Q drops his voice, speaking out of the corner of his mouth to Jessica. "We'll report if we need you. I wouldn't count on 007 responding, if my experience with him is anything to go by. Minimal contact starting - "

Naturally, Bond cuts in just to spite Q. "You do me a disservice, Q. Jessica, always a pleasure."

"As I was _saying_," Q furiously whispers over Bond, swerving around a waiter with plates stacked to his chin. "Minimal contact starting now."

Q deliberately chooses a stool at the bar, ordering the first drink that comes to mind. The mirrored wall before him is ideal for discreetly watching the room without attracting attention. He's surveilling his environment when he catches Bond staring intently back at him, not so much a flinch of embarrassment about the agent. 

He's seated near the centre of the room, bold as brass, lounging in his chair as if he belongs there, as if the people and furniture and the restaurant itself simply sprung up around him one day and adjusted to work around him. Q should have anticipated Bond's murmur, the low timbre through the earpiece despite Q's demand for minimal contact. 

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" 

Q thinks on Bond, of his glacier stare and hardened features, the cold rebuff that could catch you out like a freak storm. Then the intense heat, smouldering constantly beneath his surface like magma, the tempting draw of fire on a cruel winter night. 

"We aren't summer people, you and I." Q tells him softly. "You disappoint me, Bond. I thought you were more original than to bring the Bard into this."

"Why tamper with a classic?"

"I believe the old adage you're searching for is '_if it ain't broke, why fix it_?'" Q quips, trying to remind himself that he's here on a job, he's here to _work_, that Jessica is back at Q Branch listening in on this exchange in case they need additional support. It's proving difficult for him to care. Although - "Ah, the target has just walked in through the door..."

Q notices the subtle change in Bond's countenance, the tension stirring in his body like screws being tightened at his joints. To the untrained eye he's still perfectly serene, rising from his seat to meet the target with a saunter to his walk. A few heads turn to watch him and Q can't blame them, there's simply something magnetic about Bond.

She's gorgeous, of course. Devastating to behold, Q can barely look directly at her. Flowing dark hair, statuesque, with lips as red as the backless dress she's wearing - it's like staring into the sun. Bond has no such problem; he's taken her by the small of the back and is leading her over to their table like they're the only ones in the room, brushing a lock of her hair from her bare shoulder. Beautiful people are unbearably blase to one another's potent allurement. 

Q isn't obtuse, he knows that Bond has always favoured a type - namely, anyone he thinks is worth noticing - and that he has blundered his way onto that list but there's something about Bond, something _within_ him that calls to Q and has him reaching back blindly, needily. Some shared understanding, a meeting of two disparate souls seeking common ground.

It's hard for Q not to draw comparisons between himself and the target, confronted as he is by his own sallow reflection taking twitchy glances at the face he's hardly given a moment's thought to over the years. That bothers Q; how wretched, how weak, how incredibly _human_ and dull of him. His face serves him admirably enough, he supposes, but Q has always considered his appearance a mere mask, a cover, something to hide away the thing he really treasures: his mind. If pressed, Q might tentatively admit to himself that a part of his attraction to Bond is that the agent seems to truly appreciate Q's intellect, however much it may be concealed beneath Bond's frequent but loving digs.

From his vantage point at the bar, Q observes Bond's flirting with detached interest. It's as mundane yet mildly compelling as watching a traffic warden slap a ticket onto a windshield. It's just the nature of the job, he and Bond both know that. If anyone remotely toying with the idea of espionage struggled with jealousy, Q would highly suggest a swift career change.

Bond's voice is in Q's ear again but he's not talking to him. "Care for a drink?" 

Q picks up another voice, soft and very, very French. "You twist my arm, Mr. Bond. I prefer champagne."

"Perfect."

Q keeps his eyes down on his own drink - Scotch on the rocks, now why had he ordered that? - when an arm brushes against his, the scent of a familiar cologne saturating the air. Bond leans against the bar beside him but acts as if they are perfect strangers, motioning to the bartender while slipping something heavy into the inside pocket of Q's jacket. Knuckles leisurely graze by Q's ribs as the hand withdraws, coolly confident in their intended effect. 

"How do you like it, Q?"

Q skates past the innuendo but his words come out breathy, rushed. "If you must know, it's a little fancier than I'm personally used to and I don't think much of the menu."

Bond pins Q down with a look in the mirrored wall, "This is one of the finest restaurants in the city."

"You can't tell me it holds the same satisfaction as popping to the chippy for a kebab, surely?"

"I beg your pardon, I'm afraid you'll have to repeat that. I haven't the slightest idea what you just said."

"Have you never enjoyed a late night takeaway, Bond? We should stop off at the chip shop after we're done here, my treat."

"Dressed like this?"

"My local chippy will have seen stranger sights on a Saturday night than you in a tuxedo, believe it or not." Q says, itching to get started on the phone and escape this place. He takes an unwanted but necessary sip of his drink for verisimilitude and grimaces. "I'm impressed, Bond. No one has tried to shoot you yet." 

Bond whisks up the two flutes of champagne deposited in front of him, sparing a few more seconds for the Quartermaster.

"I think there's still time for all of that, Q."

Q slams the glass down, spilling its contents across the surface of the bar in his haste to get the words out before Bond slips away. Never mind, he can use that to his advantage soon enough.

"Speaking of; remind me later that I'm angry with you for taking the car out without permission. I imagine you disregarded at least a dozen rules of the road to arrive here before me so if I find even _one_ scratch on it, I'll be having stern words with you."

"Promises, promises..."

Q affords Bond precisely five minutes to get back safely to his seat before he makes his move.

"Hello there," Q calls out to the bartender, unsure of the etiquette when you've upended your expensive drink all over the expensive bar but he waves a hand for good measure. "Excuse me!"

It works a treat. The bartender must have a built in radar for socially hesitant MI6 employees out of their depth at fancy bars. He approaches Q, pencil thin moustache twitching with restrained annoyance. 

"Would you like another drink, sir?"

"Lord, no. I'm afraid I've made quite a mess," Q gestures down to the puddle of Scotch. "While I have you here, could you tell me where the loo is situated? To clean myself up?"

"Ah. Just through there, sir, and then take the immediate right."

"Thank you. Sorry for the bother."

Q takes the direct route to the toilets, which by dint of coincidence also takes him past Bond. It's an unprofessional impulse but a glance over to the table is so utterly irresistible and it yanks at Q's baying inquisitive nature; the target speaks something low into Bond's ear and it's just as Q is shuffling by, toes curled in his ill fitting shoes, when Bond glances up and over the target's shoulder to meet Q's curiosity head on in a move as unprofessional as Q's own.

He smiles in that tight lipped way of his, learned caution because even something as simple as a smile can get him killed in the wrong circumstances. If he could, Q would tell him it's hardly worth the bother because it's his eyes that betray him in the end. It's the sudden surge of affection in those eyes that give him away. It's how Q knows that the smile is for _him_ and not the target, who catches some of the heat and mistakenly assumes it's directed at her. 

_Probably for the best_, Q thinks as he skulks through the door to the toilets.

The restroom is quite extravagant, the size of the entire floor plan of his flat if he went by his rough estimation. He takes note of the marble sinks, the golden taps, unblemished mirrors showing more of the lines around Q's eyes than he'd like to dwell on presently.

"Very swish," Q mutters to himself, ducking to check that all the stalls are empty before shutting himself in the end one and settling down onto the lid of the toilet. He highly doubts that Bond has ever had to resort to such desperate measures, probably sooner be choked with a wire than have to work in these conditions.

Q pulls out his own phone, brings up the app he's built especially for the occasion. It works similarly to bluetooth or AirDrop but with a catch; the app automatically opens a link between his phone and the target's, without any need for permission from the other phone. The target's phone, for all intents and purposes, has the appearance of being locked but the app blocks every bit of security it has to protect itself. Files, photos, documents, emails and texts - everything is readily available to Q through his own device and he doesn't even have to break a sweat over fussy little passwords.

The hardest part will be sifting through all the information for anything that might be of use. Of course, there's the moral dilemma to consider. Q isn't particularly proud of his app, he has half a mind to destroy it once he's finished here but needs must. 

He shifts on the toilet seat and gets to work.

It's hard to say how long he's been sat there for, time measured only by Bond's voice drifting in and out through his ear, background noise to entertain him as he wades through endless emails. A room booked under a fake name at a Dubai hotel. A Google search of daily horse racing results. Reservations for a private dinner at the racecourse restaurant. Q chats periodically with Jessica, exchanging titbits like they're swapping pieces over an unfinished puzzle until they come up with a complete image.

"I thought we were tracking the target's husband because he's been procuring nuclear weapons for other persons of interest?" Jessica enquires. The barely audible sound of tapping from her keyboard has done wonders to soothe Q, he's almost relaxed now. "A bit of tampering at the races seems below Bond's pay grade." 

"I imagine fixing the races in favour of a win is more of a side hustle. It'll provide a window for Bond, at the very least. I'm sure he'll enjoy placing a bet or two while he's there." 

A soft tap on the door of his cubicle disturbs Q. He jumps up, long fingers fumbling to put the phone back in his pocket. When he unlocks the door, he comes face to face with Bond himself.

"I hope you've been saying only good things about me." he asks casually, mouth twitching with the threat of a smile.

"For god's sake, you could have warned me you were coming!"

"By all means, Q, if you'd like to finish up in there..." Bond says, looking around Q to stare into his makeshift office. "Found anything decent?"

"Were you not listening through your earpiece?"

"I took it out. In case you hadn't noticed, I was fairly preoccupied."

Q marches past him towards the sink, pumping a substantial amount of luxurious soap into the palm of his hand. He shouldn't be surprised that Bond follows. "I hear Dubai is delightful this time of year. Arrangements for your journey have been taken care of, courtesy of Jessica. You leave in the morning." he says in the midst of lathering and rinsing.

"No rest for the wicked." Bond passes him a towel to dry his hands, Q blinking at the thoughtfulness. "Or so I'm told."

It should be awkward that Bond found him perched on a toilet, it should be so excruciatingly uncomfortable that Q would be making his excuses right about now to retreat back to the refuge of what is left of his god awful Scotch at the bar. But Bond's blue gaze is silently communicating for him to stay, _don't go running off just yet_, and Q hasn't the willpower to refuse such a command.

Not even when Bond comes forward, answering the unspoken question in Q's frown by methodically unbuttoning Q's jacket. With those proficient hands, he pushes his way into the warmth of Q's body, fingers curling around his waist, pinching at his knitted vest. 

"I didn't want to say earlier but wearing this with a suit is nothing short of blasphemous, Q. I'm going to have to take you to my tailor. No self-respecting Quartermaster should be caught dead dressed in a knitted vest."

"There's nothing wrong with my knitwear, thank you."

Q might possibly combust from the tension ricocheting around his stomach; it threatens to come spilling out of him, urging him to do something monumentally stupid and impulsive. Q hates that feeling, of not knowing what his body might instinctively do next simply because Bond is making good on all his experience and driving Q crazy just by pressing hands to his rib cage in the _bathroom_, of all places.

Bond leans closer, lips disturbing the hair coiled around Q's ear. Q barely holds onto his composure, looking up at the light bulb left of Bond's head and pouring all his energy into burning his retinas instead of giving the agent something to latch onto.

"If I had it my way, I'd sooner see all those jumpers and cardigans off, Q."

"If you're hoping that this will make me forget about the Aston Martin, you're terribly mistaken."

"While we're on the subject of stolen property..." Bond murmurs, moving away with the target's phone in hand. "I'll be returning this, if it's all the same to you." Q hadn't even felt him take it, too caught up in the closeness of him to do anything else. Undoubtedly Bond's intention.

"Christ." Q exhales, turning on his heel to grip at the sink. A slip up, that break in his composure. Bond drives him near mad though, he can only take so much.

"Are you ready to be collected, Q?" Moneypenny chimes in on the line, oblivious to Q's burning face and Bond's open triumph as he watches Q attempting to get a grip on himself.

"Moneypenny! That sounds - "

"Like a waste of your Saturday night, Eve." Bond says, cutting a glance over at Q. He'd put his earpiece back in the moment Q responded to Moneypenny. "I'll take Q home. We're both done here."

"James Bond, leaving the party so soon?"

Q can picture Moneypenny at her desk at MI6, feet kicked up on the table and a chewed up pen lid between her teeth, going stagnant while she waits around for the mission to be finished. Her boredom sliced through with a neat little line, courtesy of Bond's interruption. Q can hear the energy skyrocket in her voice. 

"Something must be coming over me." Bond says smoothly, staring at the Quartermaster. 

"M has been asking for updates every five minutes. I think he must be experiencing a guilty conscience for kicking Q out to fend for himself."

"Q's done remarkably well - " 

"I _can_ hear every word you're both saying." Q hisses scathingly but Bond motions for him to be quiet.

"We're signing off. Tell M that we'll be in for the debriefing first thing tomorrow morning."

"Bond, what about - "

"Good night, Moneypenny." he says with an air of finality. There aren't many who would argue with Bond after that but Eve Moneypenny is one of them. 

Bond reaches up, tugging Q's earpiece free and dropping it into his pocket before Moneypenny can say another word. "I do believe you promised to show me the wonders of a takeaway."

"What about the target?"

"Don't worry over that detail. Meet me out front, I'll drive."

"I'm not so sure that this is - " 

"Do you want to get out of here or not?" 

Q thinks of the busy restaurant outside and the potentiality of the bartender's wrath, the fact that his toes are all but begging for relief from these dratted shoes. That Bond is waiting for him, watching him, ready to duck out of the mission early for the sake of vinegar-sodden fish and chips and Q's prickly company. 

"God, yes." 

Bond seems satisfied with that reply. "Well then. Meet me out front in two minutes." he says again, polished shoes tapping against the marble floor with intent now that Q has made up his mind. He lingers at the door, a hand on the crystal doorknob. "Not a second longer."

Q nearly wonders how he came to be here but he shakes off the thought. He already knows. The truth of the matter is, he was blindsided the moment he set eyes on Bond that day in the National Gallery. He was lost once the agent opened his bloody sarcastic mouth. Ever since then, he's been wandering in the woods on a very specific path, one of Bond's choosing and forged upon each and every word he's ever spoken to Q, every look he's ever shot him. Leading him further astray until all Q could see was him. 

And - god help him - Q doesn't mind. He doesn't mind a single bit.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! Couldn't help but write a part 3. I hope you like it!


End file.
